


Of Those Who Leave Us

by FullMetalGuardian, Milk (FullMetalGuardian)



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: A little fluffy, Brutal Combat, Did I mention gore, Forgive lore inconsistencies, MC is pretty fuckin cool, a little dark and sad, big fuckin monster fights, i mean his name is harkan, raising gascoigne's daughters, the strong one is soft for the little one, unlikely friends, where do we go from here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:01:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25663291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FullMetalGuardian/pseuds/FullMetalGuardian, https://archiveofourown.org/users/FullMetalGuardian/pseuds/Milk
Summary: “How long?”“Pardon me?”She swallowed. Trembled. “How long before the beasts come?”I furrowed my brow. “Here? To your home?”She nodded.“They will not,” I said, a little louder than I meant to. “And if they try, then I will protect you.”
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	1. It had to be done

**Author's Note:**

> howdy. I've done my best to read up on game lore, but this isn't really a deep dive into Bloodborne. It's a story i plan to update here and there while I think about the story of Harkan, Madeleine, Elizavet, and Eileen.

My breath came in ragged heaves as the flashes of my life echoed behind my eyes. I was that close to dying. 

Danger passed, my hunt-employed saw cleaver dropped to the ground. I joined it, first at a crouch, then in a sprawl.

_I am alive._

For some reason, images of my mother wiping my tears were the highlight of the life flashing behind my eyes. Her gentle smile and careful hand.

The moist earth beneath the moon cushioned my back, except for a tree root that wormed just behind my hip. I didn’t mind. Instead, I stared at that ominous lunar globe in the sky. Some clouds obscured parts of it, but its gaze entranced me. For hours and hours and hours it had been there, leagues longer than its prescribed nine or ten. Our city had endured more than a year without the sun. Long enough for the trees and plants to die, and a permanent chill to permeate the streets of Yharnam.

But as terrible as the sun’s absence was, it was not our largest problem.

After I caught my breath, I sat up, reaching for my weapon. I had held it for so long that my hands were tough and callused along my palms, thumbs, knuckles. It had gone through repair after repair, sharpening after sharpening. An ergonomic handle attached to a brutal, bloodletting sawblade by a locking hinge allowing me to extend it longer and shorter.

Finally, I let myself look into the unseeing eyes of my deceased enemy.

Father Gascoigne. His characteristic dark clothes and wide-brimmed hat were shredded and tossed aside. His tall, muscular frame had been exchanged for a gargantuan, beastly one. His bearded, content face had been replaced by a hairy wolfman’s, his teeth and snout distinctly lupine.

I couldn’t help but remember better times. Gascoigne had more than once invited myself and Eileen, another hunter, to his home for a meal with his daughters. Laughter around his hearth with hot drinks or cold ones permeated the collection of mental images surrounding my old friend.

A few hours ago had been such an event. His daughters and wife at home, he and I had warmed our hands and souls by a bonfire near central.

“Well,” he said, tugging his gloves tight over his increasingly furry fingers. His face was still handsome, and his frame was still masculine and upright. “I’m off for the hunt.”

I stared at him, the weeks of unease at his steady transformation reaching a head in a single reply. “The. . . hunt is not everything, you know.”

His smile dried up. He scoffed, hefting his Hunter’s Axe. “I’m protecting my daughters. I have a wife and family. Were it not for the hunt, they would be beasts, or beast fodder.”

I stared in a way I assumed was neither friendly nor compassionate. The area near his home had long since been slated clean of beasts. Brick trolls, mange hounds, crazed townspeople alike had been slain and cremated. His home and his daughters were nearly the safest in the city. Yet Gascoigne ventured farther and farther to find things to kill.

I nodded. “I trust you, friend. But your family does miss you, on occasion. You must always return to them.”

His expression softened, and he looked away before wrapping his bandages over his eyes. He’d begun the habit of covering his eyes only in the last few days, and I didn’t like it. I could only assume it was because he was relying on his nose to hunt, rather than his eyes.

“I will come home,” he had assured me. “I always do.”

I didn’t speak again as he made his way back into the city, the light of his torch disappearing in the distant alleys.

“Did you know?” I asked his corpse. “Did you know this was your last outing? Did you know your daughters wouldn’t see you again?”

I stared at his body for a long time before hanging my cleaver on a nearby gravestone. Our fight had taken place in the small courtyard below Oedon’s Chapel. A round graveyard filled with the dead from before the Plague of Beasts. There were enough dead trees to gather firewood, and I had enough strength to lift his body onto it. I didn’t want his wife or his daughters to see him like this—apparently they had seen him turn into the beast before, but had managed to use a music box to calm him down.

The music box didn’t work this time.

Any hunter carries a few urns of oil on them to cook beasts with. It was with one of these that I doused Gascoigne’s corpse. I struck a match and stepped back as he became an inferno. It was the best I could do.

I stood there for a long time—maybe an hour. I waited for him to burn away, covering my nose with a rag until the stench was more or less similar to the rest of the fallen city.

How was I going to tell Viola? I’d need to do my part to keep her and her daughters safe and fed for the duration of the night—no matter how long it lasted. Little Elizavet and Madeleine deserved that much, at least.

Would they hate me?

I scoffed. Of course they would. But would Viola understand, at least?

Through their cracked window, Madeleine told me that her mother had crept into the night to find Gascoigne herself.

I still hadn’t found her. She was a smart woman and knew how to avoid the beasts. I would likely need to meet her at her home. She wouldn’t stay out too long to look for her husband, not while her children were home alone.

But even then, as I considered it, the unease of the past weeks gripped my heart again.

Unless. . . she _did_ find him.

I looked around the courtyard. The tall grass and the graves could have been hiding anything.

Shoulders slumped, I lit my Hunter’s Torch and began to sift through the grass.

A glint of light caught my eye. A long dress and silk gloves.

Viola was dead, slumped against a gravestone. I closed my eyes at her wounds, turned away from the blood for a moment. Gascoigne had done this. To his own wife.

Footsteps from behind me. My Hunter instincts screamed for me to find my weapon and cut the noise down, but I turned to see Eileen walking into the courtyard from Oedon Chapel. She wore her crowfeather garb and beak mask. First, she saw Gascoigne. She stared at him for a long moment before turning around and noticing me.

She stopped behind me, and I realized my arms were shaking.

She’ll hate me, too, right?

Before I could dismiss the idea, she had done it for me.

“It had to be done,” she whispered. “We’ve seen it coming for weeks.”

I shuddered, nodding. Carefully, I gathered up Viola and placed her beside her husband. I closed her eyes and pulled red brooch from her dress. I repeated to cremation process, stepping back as the flames reached chest-height.

Eileen remained silent.

“I’ll tell the girls,” I said.

The firelight did nothing to hint at Eileen’s expression behind her mask. I could only see the dark holes above the long beak staring intently at the flames.

“I think they’ll understand,” she replied. “Madeleine will. She’s a smart girl. Good head on her shoulders. Tough.”

I nodded.

“Elizavet might need a simple explanation until she’s older,” she added.

An intrusive thought occurred to me. Will she have the chance to get older?

I swallowed. “They’ll need someone to take care of them.”

Eileen’s turn to stay silent.

“Madeleine is fourteen,” I added. “But small for her age. Not big enough to manage the streets of Yharnam.”

“Elizavet is barely four,” Eileen agreed. “Neither are equipped to navigate this horrible night.”

Our silence and the crackle of the flames were two disconnected tracks. While the hiss and spits of the fire chattered about the lives lost here, our wordlessness could only attribute to our desire for the other to take responsibility for the young ones.

I sighed.

Viola’s flames released her tortured soul from her defeated body. The smoke curled and danced akin to how she would lift and toss little Elizavet as Gascoigne would trick the air into singing through his accordion while Eileen and Madeleine and I would thump the ground with our feet and laugh and cheer. And as her smoke rose, Gascoigne’s twisted to become one with it—and they rose together into the starry sky.

And it was my own carelessness that had lead me here. I had already begun down this path; I could not change course now.

“I’ll look after them,” I said. “The girls.”

Eileen turned to me, her arms crossed either in appreciation or apprehension. I couldn’t tell.

“You know how to care for children?”

“If you’re skeptical, why didn’t you offer?”

She nodded. “Alright, I withdraw. But you’re welcome to ask for help. When you need it.”

“I could not pull you from the hunt,” I said. “There are too many loose cannons calling themselves hunters in the streets tonight. The Hunter of Hunters can’t be distracted by protecting children. I can do it.”

She nodded slowly. We watched the fires for a moment longer as the growing need to leave and attend to the children weighed on my mind.

How would I care for them? They were children in Yharnam. There was nowhere truly safe. There was no school, no primaries, no more churches or day cares. No hospitals or clinics.   
I would need to teach Elizavet to read. I was nearly certain that Viola had begun that process already, but practice made perfect.

“I was a mother. Before all this started,” Eileen said.

I cocked my head at her. It was uncommon to talk about life before the Plague of Beasts brought Yharnam to its grave.

“Had two sons. Harry joined the Choir. Thomas went to Byrgenwerth. I found Harry’s body in Yahar’gul with a mensis cage on his head. Died with the others in the ritual. I still don’t know what happened to Thomas. But I barely survived losing them. If I care for these girls, and something happens, then. . . then. . .”

“Don’t fret,” I said. “I’ll see that they’re cared for. Be sure to stop by now and then, though.”

“Right,” she said. “I’ll. . . I’ll do that.”

She nodded, and then abruptly turned to depart. Her steady gait echoed through the courtyard until she was gone.

I left the two companion pyres minutes later. 


	2. Would you like me to tuck you in?

I lowered my head outside the door, pleading to the Great Old Ones for help. Not that they hear our prayers, I think. But it helps to pretend, for an instant, that someone will help me tell two little girls that their father has killed their mother, and that I have killed their father. 

I knocked, checking over my shoulder to ensure no beasts had found their way to the courtyard. As always, it was clear and empty; the only visitor was the moon illuminating the flagstone bricks and mossy gargoyles. 

“Who’s out there?” 

I knew Madeleine’s voice. She’d called out boldly, fearlessly. Not because she was without fear--I knew too well of her fear of the beasts--but because she needed to be brave for little Elizavet. 

“It’s me,” I replied. “It’s safe. You can let me in.” 

The door creaked open, and Madeleine’s face poked through the crack. Her eyes were drawn in with a scowl I’d come to remember. 

I pushed the door open. Madeleine stepped back, ushering Elizavet behind her, keeping her small, dark eyes on me. Elizavet stared at me with less apprehension and more curiosity. 

I closed the door behind me. I had never been alone with them before, and they were probably uncertain what I was doing there. Elizavet’s bouncy blonde hair reached for her flowered nightgown, and she held a small cloth bear with black button eyes. Madeleine wore a dark nightgown and bare feet, with a white hair clip pulling her short dark-chocolate hair behind her ear. 

“Harkan,” Madeleine whispered. I was a little surprised to hear my own name. “Did you find them?” 

For a brief moment, I considered lying. It twisted my gut, but the reality was that I could tell them that Gascoigne had gone on a long journey and would return eventually. I remember my mother reading stories like that to me when I was small. 

But I dismissed the idea quickly. The stories never ended well. Best to simply tear the bandage off quickly, and move on from there. 

I knelt down before them, humbly retrieving the music box that Madeleine had lent me before I set out to find her father. I brought with it the red brooch of their mother and proffered them. 

“I found your father,” I said. “And your mother. The music box did not work this time, and I was unable to save either of them. They are dead.” 

Madeleine stared at me. Elizavet scrunched her eyebrows. 

“Huh?” Elizavet whispered. “What do you mean?” 

Madeleine said nothing, her midnight eyes challenging me to repeat my news. As though if I were incapable of delivering the news twice, it would become untrue. 

They were aware of their father’s beastly condition. His abrupt changes in nature and his bursts of violence as a goliath wolfman. 

“The music box,” I repeated. “It did not calm him down. He didn’t recognize me. He and your mother are dead.” 

“But what happened?” Madeleine said. Her voice had the barest hint of a quiver. A tiny shake, smaller than her little body. 

I furrowed my brow. Did she want details? How did my father die? How did my mother die? 

I couldn’t blame her for asking. Though I did assume the questions would wait until later in the mourning process. I dropped my head, staring at my knee on the ground before looking up at her. 

“He attacked me, Madeleine. I tried a dozen times to calm him down, to bring him back, but. . . In the end, I failed. And I chose my life over his. I’m sorry. I killed him. I found your mother’s body shortly after.” 

Elizavet’s wide, confused eyes became squinty and tight as tears began to brush her cheeks. “Daddy’s. . . gone?” 

The words collided with me like her father’s claws had, not a few hours ago, and I felt my chest tighten. 

“Y-yes,” I replied. 

“And mo-mommy?” 

My throat got hot. 

“Yes, child. They. . . will not return.” 

Elizavet sat down on the hardwood floor, releasing a long, sad wail. Her little hands tucked into fists below her eyes, making a child’s attempt at rubbing away sudden pain that would take a lifetime to recover from. 

Madeleine blinked once, twice. Her stone-cold stare bored into me, and I could still feel it as I looked away. She tightened her grip on the music box and the brooch, as if a sudden instability within her had lurched her face’s control to her hands. 

And then, her gaze shifted to the ground as she released a single, quiet choke. 

I watched her bring the old heirlooms of her parents before her eyes. She stared at them and carefully clutched them to her chest. 

Finally, she looked at me with eyes barely hiding shining tears. 

“How long?” 

“Pardon me?” 

She swallowed. Trembled. “How long before the beasts come?” 

I furrowed my brow. “Here? To your home?” 

She nodded. 

“They will not,” I said, a little louder than I meant to. “And if they try, then I will protect you.” 

A great war broke out behind her eyes, one that she could not hide. Relief at the prospect of safety from the beasts outside clashed with fury that it would come from the man who’d slain her father. 

“Why—what about—where’s Eileen?” 

I nodded. Of course she’d prefer Eileen stay and protect her. “She is busy. Too busy. There are many men losing their minds this night, and she is doing her best to release them from the hunt. It is a work only she can do.” 

Madeleine’s head dropped, her neck-length hair swishing in frustration. 

Finally she turned and sat on the cold, unfeeling floor by her sister, giving her as much sisterly warmth as a tight, quivering hug could deliver. I watched, crouched there on the doormat. 

How much would this night take from us? 

My fingers brushed the floor before I stood up. I edged around them and stepped into the kitchen. 

I don’t imagine they’ve had dinner. 

By the time their cries had slowed to inconsistent sniffles, I had a pot of beef stew bubbling, ready to ladle into bowls. 

“I have food for you, if you’d like,” I said, stepping into the front hallway. Madeleine didn’t look at me, but nodded quietly. 

She brought Elizavet to the dinner table as I put bowls and spoons in front of their chairs. Elizavet, teary-eyed, placed her teddy bear upright beside her bowl, and soon they were sipping slowly and somberly. 

“Mommy. . .” Elizavet moaned quietly and gave a quiet hiccup. 

Madeleine didn’t look at me. 

“It’s bad,” she said. “Your soup. It’s bad.” 

“It is?” I asked. I took a sip. “It’s beef stew. Do you think it needed more vegetables?” I had cut up a few carrots and potatoes and let them soften in the stew before serving. “Perhaps more seasoning?” 

“I hate carrots.” 

“I see,” I said. “I’ll remember that.” 

“I don’t,” Elizavet whispered. 

“You don’t what?” 

“I don’t. . . hate carrots.” 

I nodded again. “Very well. I will remember that, too.” 

It would not be too difficult a task to make food they liked. I would just need to keep a record of what they would eat. The notebook in my pocket would work just fine. 

“When you are done eating, bring me your dishes,” I said, “And I will clean them.” 

“You’re not our mom.” 

I turned to see Madeleine glaring at me, soup dripping off her spoon and onto the counter. I decided to clean it up once she went to bed. 

“I agree. Do you think you should clean them instead?” 

She scowled and looked away, chewing a potato. 

Elizavet slid from her chair, offering me her empty bowl with the hand that didn’t hold the arm of her teddy bear. 

“Would you like more, child?” I asked, taking it. 

She shook her head, turning away to walk slowly out of the room, her bear bouncing sadly against her leg. 

“I want Mommy to come home,” she said as she turned out of sight. “And Daddy.” 

Madeleine left her bowl on the table and followed her sister, leaving me alone. I gathered up the meal, cleaning the table and the pot before slumping into the chair Gascoigne himself had sat in so many times. I rested my elbows on the table, and my head on my hands.

I am now responsible for two young girls. 

I pulled my notebook from my coat pocket, realizing I had left it on. Thankfully I’d had the mind to clean all of Gascoigne’s blood off it before entering his home, but it was probably why my chest was feeling hot. 

I pulled it off, carrying it to the coat rack by the door. I hesitated, and then cracked the front entry open, looking around the square. It was well and truly empty, home only to the moonlight. 

Door closed, locked, and barricaded, I decided to carry my coat as I found my way to a guest room. Gascoigne had had no shortage of money, and his house as a result had no shortage of rooms and space. 

I put the coat in a closet. I didn’t have any of my other belongings, not that I had many. My own home was humble and nearby, and I would bring my clothes and gear when I had the chance. 

I looked at the bed. One of Viola’s maids must have made it before she sent them all home for the hunt. Who knew where they were now, nearly a year later? The bed had a thin layer of dust that I got out by shaking the sheets and fluffing the pillows. 

“H-Harkan?” 

I turned to see Madeleine holding Elizavet’s hand. Elizavet was hiding behind her sister, peeking around at me with sad, tired eyes. 

“Yes, Madeleine?” I replied, pretending I hadn’t noticed Elizavet. 

“It’s. . . Elizavet can’t sleep. Our mom always. . . tucks her in.” 

I nodded, dropping to crouch before them. I leaned around to look at Elizavet. “Would you like me to tuck you in, child?” 

She hesitated, her thumb prodding at her lip. Then she nodded. 

“Very well,” I said, “Then I shall do so. Show me to your room.” 

She did, grabbing a small fold of my trousers near the knee. Madeleine disappeared into the room next-door to Elizavet, closing herself in without a word as Elizavet released her hold on my trousers and climbed into her bed. 

Once I reached her side, I hesitated. 

What right do I have to do something so tender and caring? I killed your father, little one. 

I glanced around her room, noticing a book on her nightstand with a bookmark in it. 

“Would you like me to read to you?” I asked. 

She turned away from me, her hands resting atop the covers. “No. Only mommy can read to me.” 

“Very well. May I tuck you in, then?” 

“I guess.” 

I overcame my doubt and went about pulling the covers tight over her. What was tucking in, anyway? Was it like this? Or. . . this? 

She looked at me, exasperated. 

“You’re doing it wrong.” 

I looked at her light eyes. “Is that so? I’m afraid I don’t have much experience in tucking.” 

“You have to push the blanket under. Like this. Look.” 

She sat up, leaning forward over the covers to push them under her legs, making an outline of herself. 

“I see. And you’d like that around your whole body?” 

She nodded, scooting back under her blankets. “Yeah.” 

“Very well. Hold still.” 

I followed her example, tucking the blanket under her little body until she was neatly outlined. I paused as she made a muted squealing sound, raising an eyebrow. She looked away with a scowl. “You tickled me.” 

I nodded. “I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful.” 

I finished tucking, careful not to cause unnecessary tickling. Once finished, I stepped back and reached for her small bedside candle. “Would you like me to leave this lit?” 

She nodded, and I made my way to the door, giving the room a glance to ensure it was safe. The windows were barred, and this was the second floor, and her curtains were closed tight. I didn’t suspect anything would be coming in from there. “Good night, child,” I said. “Rest well. I am just in the guest room if you are scared. Or your sister is next door.” 

She didn’t reply as I closed the door. 

I turned, intending to make way back to my chosen guest room. Instead, I was halted by Madeleine standing before me. 

“I can tuck you in as well, but I don’t suppose that is what you are going to confront me about.” 

She scowled, her head giving a little shake as though she thought I was perhaps the most abominable thing she’d ever encountered. 

“What are you doing?” she asked. 

“I was going to sleep. But I’d be happy to chat with you first, if you like.” 

She turned her head to the side, shuffling her feet. She didn’t speak for a moment, but she didn’t move either. The pattern of a person amalgamating words over and over again, unsure of how to deliver the idea. 

“I hate you,” she said, apparently sure this was the conversation route she wanted to take. 

“I understand.” 

“And I don’t want you to stay here.” 

“I understand.” 

I sensed more was coming, so I waited again for her to pull her thoughts together. This was important for children, I think. Perhaps more so for older children like her. 

“You. . . you killed my dad.” 

“Yes. With great remorse and after a great deal of difficult rumination. And I am sorry to you for that.” 

Her hands balled into fists for a moment before the tension was released, and then pent up again. 

“Come with me,” I said. “We can talk in the kitchen. We are likely keeping Elizavet from sleeping.” 

I didn’t wait for her to agree; I made my way downstairs and hung a pot of water in the hearth for tea. 

Unsure if she’d even followed me, I spoke over the sound of the dying flame being stoked to life by my poker. “I saw some tea bags in the cupboard. Do you know what kind they are?” 

There was a beat of silence, and I wondered if she had simply ignored me and gone to bed.

“Black,” she said. “It’s black tea. Father’s.”

“Good. Would you like some?” 

She didn’t answer, so I assumed the affirmative. I remembered where the ceramic mugs were in the cupboards and withdrew two. Then, deciding I’d like some sugar, I checked the pantry. 

I paused, noting the presence of blood vials in a small wire-cage lockbox in the corner. More than a hundred vials of the Old Blood locked away. It made me shiver a little—I’d used a vial that night myself, but the stuff always made me wary. 

The difference between poison and prescription usually lies in the dose. That’s what I’d been told by an old surgeon friend, Alfredius, before the fires of Old Yharnam. 

I found the sugar and brought it to the table as the pot came to a boil. Madeleine was sitting at the dinner table, staring at me. 

“You’re stealing my dad’s tea?” she asked. It was an accusation, but without the necessary energy. More of a jab than a sign of actual anger.

“I am. In return for protecting his two daughters tonight, I will tax him one cup of black tea.” 

“If you didn’t kill him, he could protect us himself.” 

I raised an eyebrow, dropping a tea bag into my empty mug. “The way he protected your mother tonight?” 

Her eyes widened, and she looked away. Her fists tightened again. 

“If you cast thoughtless words like condemning stones despite being old enough to know better,” I said. “Then you must be prepared for honest rebuttal.” 

She didn’t speak. I supposed that was understandable, but I continued. 

“I did not want to slay Gascoigne. I enjoyed my time with your family, but I never intended to take care of it. However, this turn of events demands that I take responsibility, and I will do so. To my dying breath, I will protect you and your sister.” 

I stood up, gathering the boiling water from the fire and pouring it into our mugs. Once returned to my seat, I placed her steaming cup before her, leaving her to steep her own tea. 

A bit of heat in my chest demanded attention. I bit my lip and sighed, noticing that a tear was making its way down Madeleine’s cheek. I pretended not to notice. Instead, I pulled my hat off, rumpling it on the table beside my tea. 

“But I do owe you an apology,” I said. It came out weakly. I may not be a strong man, but I will be an honest one. “I find myself to blame for your father’s beastliness. Eileen and I both knew what he was turning into. We confronted him once, but he assured us it was under control. That he was managing his blood intake carefully. That he would not succumb to the lycanthropy. I didn’t believe him, but I decided to trust him anyway. I wanted to believe that all would be well—but how oft have I seen this city destroy the best of us? I should have acted sooner. Perhaps if I had taken him to Iosefka or the runesmith or the upper caste of the healing church, we could have found a recovery method. Instead, we listened to him, and that was ultimately what destroyed him. And for that, young Madeleine, I am deeply, truly sorry. I hope you will, one day, find it in you to forgive me.” 

Silence hissed through the kitchen as her eyes widened, narrowed, flicked off to the side, glared. 

She looked away. “Whatever.” 

I nodded. “Thank you.” 

We sipped our tea, the only light in the house coming from the fire and from my little glass hand lantern over on the counter. 

“Well,” I said, placing my empty mug to the side. “I am going to rest. The house is barricaded, but if you hear anything, you may wake me. Rest well, Madeleine.” 

She didn’t reply, and I went to bed.


	3. Eileen made Oatmeal

I awoke when someone prodded my face with a small, sticky finger. 

I furrowed my brow, curbing hunters’ murder instincts to give Elizavet a quizzical look. 

“Good morning,” I said. My back ached and a few areas across my body felt tight and hot. “Why are your fingers sticky?” 

“Eileen made oatmeal,” she said. “She said to wake you up.” 

How would oatmeal make your fingers sticky? Were you eating with your hands? 

I swept my legs out from my blankets and sat on the edge of the bed. Gascoigne’s guest room was mostly comfortable, but if I had to estimate how long it had been since the bed’s most recent use, I would have wagered more than a decade had passed since the last warm body disheveled the blankets. 

“Oh good,” I replied. What’s Eileen doing here? I doubted she was stopping by to say hello or make breakfast out of goodwill. “I’ll be right down.” 

A few minutes later, I stepped into the kitchen wearing my cloak and gauntlets, my hat tucked into a pocket. 

As I guessed, Eileen, chatting quietly with the girls, was in full crowfeather garb. The Hunter of Hunters was ready for a hunt. She was here to ask for help. 

I noted that my saw cleaver was in the doorway leaning on the wall, where I’d left it before retiring. 

Eileen’s beak mask and hat were on the table, and her gray hair and grayer eyes gave me a once-over before continuing her chat with Madeleine. 

I spooned myself some oatmeal from the pot resting on the counter, eying the Blades of Mercy on Eileen’s back. Clean. Recently sharpened. She was ready for a fight. 

I sat beside Madeleine, sighing sleepily. After a few bites, I realized that Madeleine and Eileen were staring at me. 

“Hm?” I asked. “What’s that? Were you speaking to me?” 

“I was going to tease you about your methods of care, but you haven’t grievously failed yet.” 

I nodded in gratitude. “It prides me that Eileen the Crow isn’t finding fault with my work. I do regret to know that I will, inevitably, fail you.” 

“Oh, I’m aware of that,” she smiled weakly. Her own hand lantern illuminated the kitchen, and mine on the counter had burned out. 

She gave me a look, and I nodded. “Girls,” I said, “Eileen and I need to talk. Would you mind—” 

“I’m staying,” Madeleine said. 

I blinked at the sudden interruption. 

“Dear. . .” Eileen began, but Madeleine shook her head. 

“I’m fourteen. I don’t know what you need to talk about, but you don’t need to hide it from me.” 

I pondered her for a moment before shrugging. “Very well. I’ll give you a synopsis of what we discuss after we are done. However, someone needs to entertain Elizavet. If you will do that for me, I will hold nothing back.” 

Madeleine gave me a wary glare, glancing at Elizavet, who watched us all with half-distracted eyes. Her hands were covered in oatmeal. 

“Fine,” she whispered. She jabbed a finger at me. “But you can’t lie.”

“A man is only as good as his word,” I replied, “And I give you my word.” 

She nodded, standing up and gathering up Elizavet. Together, they left the kitchen, leaving me alone with the Hunter of Hunters. 

I opened my palms. “Well?” 

She sighed, looking down at the table. “It’s Henryk.” 

My shoulders drooped a centimeter. 

“He’s found Gascoigne’s body,” she continued. “He’s been screaming in the Tomb of Oedon for hours. I fear he’s lost it.” 

I nodded. “He may have been Gascoigne’s closest friend—but he’s been acting as odd lately as Gascoigne was. He’s succumbing.” 

Eileen nodded. She sat back, touching the beak mask idly. 

“How much will this night take from us, Harkan?” she whispered. “How long before one of us succumbs to it? How long before your mind breaks, or my steel fails me?” 

I shook my head. Perhaps if this night had only been going on for a few hours, I would speak of hope and of the return of the sun. But I knew better now. I wouldn’t say, Eileen, don’t speak like that. The world will eventually regain its previous sensibility. No. This was the new way of things, and survival was the new essential practice of the living. 

“I have only used two blood vials in the last two weeks,” I said. “One yesterday. One last week when Gascoigne and I slew the Bridge Guardian. The Cleric Beast.” 

She nodded. “I got a look at its corpse. That creature was monstrous. That a cleric of the healing church turned into a beast of that size somehow doesn’t surprise me, with the among of blood the clergy is guzzling.” 

“My point is that I do not plan to succumb to the plague. The difference between poison and prescription—” 

“Is in the size of the dose, yes,” she finished. “You’ve told me of Alfredius.” 

“May he rest in peace,” I added. “Very well. I’ll come with you to see Henryk. I don’t expect it will go well. I’m going to go and tell Madeleine.” 

Eileen raised an eyebrow. “What are you going to tell her?” 

“The truth,” I said. “She said herself. She is old enough. I see no reason to hide it from her.” 

Eileen shrugged. “If you say so.” 

I rose to my feet and left the kitchen, finding my way to Elizvet’s room, where Madeleine was helping her get dressed. 

“Madeleine,” I said from the door. “A word.” 

She finished pulling Elizavet’s arms through the sleeves on her small dress beforehanding her a doll and slipping out the door. 

“Well?” she asked. “What’s going on?” 

I knelt down to level our eyes. She was fourteen? She was a very short fourteen-year-old. I was also a much-too-tall man. 

“Eileen believes Henryk is losing his sanity. We are going to speak to him—and kill him, if he has lost his mind.” 

Madeleine’s eyes went through a flurry of reactions in an instant. But eventually she looked away. 

“Do you have to kill him?” 

“There is no cure for blood madness. The earliest symptom is disassociation from your friends. I do not wish to kill Henryk, but if he is truly lost, then there is no guarantee that he will not hunt me down for what I did to Gascoigne—and if he comes here, then you will be in danger. I will do what I must.” 

She nodded. “Okay.”

“I will be back,” I said, rising to my feet and turning away. “Do not open the door for anyone. We will be leaving through the front door, so please come down and lock up as soon as you can.” 

“Yeah. I know.” 

I made my way to the stairs. 

“Harkan?” she called. 

“Yes, child?” I replied, turning to see her fidgeting and avoiding eye contact. 

“My dad. . .” she said. “Did he. . . did he suffer?” 

Yes. My saw cleaver is no friendly killer. It creates great, wide gashes in the skin and tears bones and innards askew. 

And Gascoigne had slain his own wife. That was likely the thing that drove him past the point of return. 

Yes, the man suffered. 

“He is not suffering anymore,” I replied. “His soul is at rest.” 

She nodded, hesitated, and then hurried back into Elizavet’s room. 

When I returned to the kitchen, Eileen had already donned her mask and hat. 

“Well?” she asked. “How did it go?” 

“Very well,” I replied, realizing that her question annoyed me for some reason. I’d think about it before doing anything about it, but. . . “Madeleine is a good girl. She understands the state of things. I don’t think it’ll do to hide anything from her.” 

Eileen nodded, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. And wordlessly, she led the way outside.


	4. Hunters of Hunters

The walk to the Tomb of Oedon contained the normal, slow chatter Eileen and I had come to repeat every time we hunted together. 

“It’s getting colder.” 

“Yes. And it’s been a long time since the last rain.”

“The trees that haven’t died yet will be dead soon.” 

“This area’s gotten quiet. Someone’s cleaned it up well.” 

“Beast corpses piled there. Looks like no one’s burned them yet.” 

“I’ll come back and take care of it.” 

As we stepped foot onto the Bridge of Yharnam, Eileen slowed. 

“I found a lever.” 

I gave her a look. This was outside our normal conversational boundaries. “You found a lever? What did it do?”

“It was down in the cathedral with the tomb. The one Alfred hangs out by.” 

I nodded. One of the quieter corners of Cathedral Ward housed a great tomb. Earlier in the hunt, townsfolk would gather outside to burn beasts, ignoring their own beastly transformations. Some hunter had come along and slain them all and burned their corpses long ago. Perhaps it was the strange vileblood executioner.

“What did it do?” I repeated.

“Slid the tomb aside. There’s a staircase beneath it.” 

“No,” I said, aghast. The Healing Church had hidden a stairwell beneath the tomb? I was impressed. “Where did it--ah. No. It’s the path to Old Yharnam, isn’t it?” 

“It is indeed,” she said. “Djura still stands guard on one of the towers down there. I didn’t go in after he called out and told me hunters weren’t welcome, but I was pleased to finally figure out how the hell to get into the old, burned city.” 

I rubbed at my beard. Djura, the old hunter was still down in Old Yharnam? The Powder Kegs who called him their leader were all extinct now--or nearly so, apparently. 

“Well, I don’t think I’ll ever venture down there,” I said, “But it’s good to know that if I needed to, I could. Thanks for sharing.” 

“No problem. I closed it all back up when I was done--it’ll do us no good if the Ashen Blood finds its way into Central. Figured Djura would appreciate that.” 

She paused. 

“Also,” she said. “There was a lantern. Down at the entrance to the old city.” 

My skin rolled. “A hunter’s lantern?” 

She nodded. “I thought I could see the messengers there. But I don’t dream anymore.” 

_ Unlike you,  _ came the unspoken assumption. 

“I have not dreamed in a long time,” I whispered. “And I do not think anyone in the dream would be happy to see me. Not the Doll. Certainly not Gehrman.” 

_ A hunter should hunt,  _ Gehrman would say. He would absolutely disapprove of my decision to quietly monitor the streets of Central Yharnam nearest Gascoigne’s home. Not that I was trying to please the wheelchair-bound old man. 

“I know,” she said. “I just thought I’d share.” 

Before long, we had arrived at the Tomb of Oedon. Gascoigne’s body was within, mostly ashes by now, surely. My battle with him here yesterday was still hot and fresh in my thoughts, and the idea of more conflict today made my heart skip a beat. My wounds had not healed. My arms were sore and my legs jittery. 

Nevertheless. I would give this battle my all. There were two young girls who were now relying on my return. I shuffled my thoughts of Eileen’s uncharacteristic call for assistance and the likely difficulty of this fight--even with its inherent unfairness, being 2-on-1--to the far corners of my mind. It would not do to worry. 

“I’ll speak,” she said, “And we only strike if he strikes first. No double-teaming; i’d hate to accidentally shoot you just because we were on opposite sides.” 

“Tap in, tap out,” I replied. “Stay behind me once I’ve stepped in. My Blunderbuss has a tendency to shoot. . . well, everything.” 

She nodded, and then led the way into the courtyard. 

I immediately noticed that Gascoigne’s and Viola’s pyres were still smoking. A few paces away, a hunter in yellow leathers and a faded tricorn leaned against a tree, staring at the pyres. 

Henryk saw us enter. I couldn’t see his eyes from here, but the immediate hostility was nearly palpable. I watched his hand tighten over his pistol. He held a saw cleaver of his own, but his was shorter after years and years of sharpening, and his cloth grip looked ready to fall apart. 

Perhaps the triumphant king of healthy blood ministration, Henryk had lived a long, long time. Perhaps as long as Gehrman himself. 

He stood up, his shoulders square. 

“You killed him,” he said. He was still a stone’s throw away, but we could hear him clearly under the silent moon. “You killed Gascoigne.” 

I looked to Eileen, following her plan. She was the spokesman. 

“He had gone mad, Henryk,” she replied. “He killed Viola. He was not returning to himself, and was a threat to the city.” 

Henryk shivered visibly. “He was the finest man I knew. He’d never hurt Viola. He’d never hurt anyone. But  _ you. You  _ are  _ traitors.  _ Eileen, hunter of hunters. Harkan, slayer of the bridge guardian. I will enjoy carving out your ribs.” 

I gave her a look. This was a man who was going to strike first, and strike hard. 

“Very well,” she said. “Henryk. It is finally time to die.” 

“As if you could kill me,” he spat, taking on a march straight for us. His steps echoed with a deathly cadence. 

Eileen drew her blades of mercy. I hefted my cleaver and weighed my blunderbuss. I had plenty of quicksilver and was well-rested. I could give my all. 

And the fight began. 

I stepped back, allowing Eileen to clash with the old hunter first. He swept in close to her, only to get parried and shoved away. He angled his pistol and fired, but missed as she darted around him, making to plunge her blades in his back. 

I sidestepped, watching intently. My heart was thumping in anticipation. The nerves of an important, difficult fight made my hands shake until I made a concerted effort to control them. A few deep breaths, and then it was under control. 

Eileen held Henryk off. She wasn’t clearly the superior hunter, but she wasn’t clearly inferior, either. Her ducks, darts, and dodges all kept Henryk both within inches of victory and within inches of death. Neither had the upper hand, though Henryk’s occasional chuckle would send ominous shivers down my spine. 

And then. 

“Switch!” Eileen called, breathless. 

I had stayed a few paces behind her, waiting for exactly that call. She gave Henryk a shove and I plunged in. 

Henryk didn’t skip a beat. I slashed upwards with my cleaver, and he slapped it aside with his. He angled his pistol, and I dodged out of its reach. I fired the Blunderbuss, but his dense leathers took the brunt of the hit, only allowing me a single slash, but it was enough. 

I connected across his shooting arm. Not deep enough to sever the limb, nor in a vital enough place to threaten his life, but it was a definite leg up. He stumbled back, and I kept the pressure alive and hot by snapping my cleaver open, extending my range. He barely dodged, howling in pain as the massive blade crashed through a gravestone a foot to his side. 

I wrenched the cleaver closed, raising my blunderbuss again to deflect his incoming slash. My shot missed his head, but his dodge gave me enough wiggle room to lean out of his reach and prepare another crashing attack. 

But he rolled back, giving himself a breath of space as my cleaver whiffed through the air. Knocked off balance, I stumbled to the side as his pistol leveled at my face. 

“Switch!” I called, and Eileen dashed in as if she had known it was coming. 

Henryk’s distracted bullet blasted past me, and then his focus was solely on Eileen the Crow. 

“By the old gods,” I muttered. Henryk was  _ good.  _ He’d only registered his injured arm with a scream, and then ignored the pain to keep shooting. I’d expected him to favor the cleaver more after that, but it hadn’t made a difference. What kind of iron will did he have, to ignore such an injury? 

I swallowed, brief respite over. We needed to clean this up, before faraway beasts heard the conflict and came to join in. 

“Eileen!” I yelled, ducking past her. Not in front of her, but to her side. 

She didn’t respond, but seemed to understand.  _ Two on one. Completely.  _

Henryk’s eyes widened, and I could see the bloodshot madness within. And within the madness, fear. 

He was good. But was he  _ that  _ good? 

I gave Eileen a little space, trying to circle around to Henryk’s back. If one of us could get behind him, it would be over. Eileen gave me the briefest nod, lunging in and parrying his cleaver away. Henryk blasted a wild shot to my side, trying to slow my route to his back, but when I pushed on, he dodged back in a frantic roll to keep both of us in front of him. 

“You--you  _ bastards,”  _ he spat, “Is this how you took down Gascoigne? Did you cast aside all your good form to attack him two-on-one then, too?” 

“No,” I replied, darting in with my cleaver swinging straight at his chest. He deflected it, shoving me away, but I quickly recovered in a roll as Eileen stepped in and parried him away. “I killed him by myself. After he’d transformed. That is why his corpse is so large.” 

It was enough to scare Henryk. He directed his pistol at me, but I raised my cleaver sideways just as he fired, deflecting the bullet entirely. He snarled, ducking the only safe direction under Eileen’s sweeping blades, and then he was between us. 

“It’s time, Henryk,” Eileen said. 

I snapped my cleaver open, preparing the final blow. 

Henryk looked between us in one last, frantic gasp as he realized his mistake. 

And then, in the briefest moment before my cleaver split him in half, he made a strange movement. He dropped his cleaver, and made an underhanded snap-like movement. 

And then he died. My cleaver split him open from his shoulder to his hip. He screamed in agony, flailing on the ground, bellowing, “NO! NO! I DON’T DREAM! I’M GOING TO DIE! YOU BASTARDS, YOU’VE KILLED MEE!!” 

I kicked his weapons away from his dying body, rushing to Eileen. 

She had fallen to a knee, gasping in pain. One arm covered her gut, the other clenched at her crowfeather cape. 

“Eileen?” I asked. “Are you alright? What’s he done?” 

“I’m fine,” she said over Henryk’s screams. “He just. . . got me. Is all. I’ll be fine. Have you any blood?” 

I hesitated, but pulled out one of my vials. “Yes, here.” 

She took it and quickly injected it into her leg, but my eyes were on her gut. 

A knife protruded from it. Not deep, but the depth wasn’t what concerned me. 

“What’s on it?” I asked. “He’s slathered it in something.” 

A dying chuckle hissed from behind me. 

“Enjoy. . . the ashen blood,” Henryk cackled. I looked at him, my eyes wide and furious. Finally, he went still. 

I whipped my head to stare at the dagger. 

“It’s poisoned,” I gaped. “He’s poisoned a throwing knife.” 

She hissed as she looked at the injury. “Damn. Damn. Where’d he get poison from?” 

I shook my head. “I have gauze and bandaging. Lay down, I’ll see to this. For now.” 

_ Could the blood of the gods cure poison?  _

She settled onto her back, and I tugged her clothes open. Privacy be damned. I dug into my pockets, withdrawing the clean gauze bandaging I kept on hand. I withdrew my waterskin and a small bottle of alcohol I kept for emergencies. 

“I’m pulling it out,” I said. “Be ready to help me staunch.” 

“Right,” she sighed. “Go ahead.” 

I tugged the knife free, and her blood escaped her pale skin at an alarming rate. I wiped it away, quickly pouring the alcohol straight into the wound. It didn’t look good--her fair, white skin was already turning red and puffy around the wound. 

I dabbed some of the cleaning liquid onto the bandaging before pressing it to her stomach. She gasped, but didn’t complain. 

“Hold this here. Tight,” I said. 

“How’s it look, doc?” she asked. She used one hand to tug her mask free. 

“Bad,” I replied. 

“You’re supposed to lie,” she said. 

“That  _ was  _ a lie,” I said. “If I told you the truth, it would just scare you.” 

“Oh see,  _ that  _ was comforting,” she said. “Well done. Now I’m perfectly at ease.” 

I lifted her hands for a bare moment to glance at the wound. The injury was slowly, slowly, knitting itself back together. Her injection of the old blood was healing the skin, but was it removing the poison? 

No. The redness was spreading. The puffiness and the swelling was a bad sign. 

“Right,” I said. “You’ve been. . . poisoned.”

I did some fast calculations. Memories of Alfredius, and what he’d explained to me about the Ashen Blood plague that had ravaged Old Yharnam, factored into what I said next. 

“You have. . . probably one or two days before the poison kills you,” I said. “Assuming we give you a constant stream of blood ministration.” 

She gave me a look. 

“Large dose, then?” 

I grit my teeth. “It’s risky. If you survive to get the antidote, you might lose your mind to the blood. If we do not give you the blood, you will lose your body to the poison.” 

She nodded. “Alright. Do you know where to find an antidote?” 

My shoulders sagged. I looked up at the moon as my skin began to crawl. 

“I heard that the Church of the Good Chalice found an antidote to Ashen Blood.” 

The realization that dawned on her between hisses of pain brought a groan to her throat. I noted how close the moon had become. 

“Harkan. The Church of the Good Chalice is--” 

“Is in Old Yharnam,” I finished. “I know. It seems I’ll be leaving you with Madeleine and Elizavet for a few hours.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a bad feeling that this story is going to get long


	5. You seem like a good egg

“You there! Hunter. Didn’t you see the warning? Turn back at once. Old Yharnam, burned and abandoned by men, is now home only to beasts. They are of no harm to those above. Turn back now, or the Hunter will face the hunt.” 

I squinted on the steps of the small cathedral, where the secret tunnel Eileen had found deposited me. A poster near the door had warned hunters not to pass through, but I, like Eileen, had ignored it.

Old Yharnam sprawled out before me. I stood on a wide precipice, near a thin bridge that had survived the burning of the town. Nearly every building not made of stone was nothing more than ash, and there were still some cinders that coughed up smoke here and there.

Finding the speaker took me a moment, but I raised a hand peacefully.

“Djura!” I called his name after finding his outline atop a clock tower nearby. “I come peacefully! I’d like a word!”

There was silence for a moment.

“Very well! Make your way here without harming the beasts, and I will lend my ear.”

I nodded, and began making my way there.

The beasts did not make it easy. No hunter had seen Old Yharnam for a long, long time, and so no one had cleared the creatures away. That meant there were hundreds of them shuffling about in the streets between myself and the Powder Keg Djura.

_Right. Make your way without harming the beasts._

I could sneak. Leap from shadow to shadow. Pray to the old gods for safe passage, beg the moon to hide me from the beasts.

But that would take time. I did not have time. It had already taken me hours to get Eileen back to Gascoigne’s home and settled in, and hours more to make my way here.

No, I would need to run.

I lowered my shoulder as the beastmen, clad in old bandages from failed treatments ages ago and bearing wicked claws and fangs, began to notice my presence.

And then I took off in a sprint.

My sudden movement drew the attention of the passive horde. The beastmen quickly began to race me, their snarls keeping beat with my pounding footsteps.

Over the bridge, around the corner. I found myself in a small courtyard atop a long drop to the base of Djura’s tower. I would need to find my way around. A dozen shadowy figures rose from the ashes of the courtyard, eyes glowing yellow. I dashed to the near edge, glancing down—perfect. A ledge. It would have to do. I leapt the twenty feet down, bracing against the ground with my saw cleaver, stumbling, and catching myself on a corpse.

“ugh,” I whispered, pulling my hand out of its rotten innards. I flicked the waste off, sweeping the ledge with my eyes for—there. A door. I hurried through, noticing a great beastman the size of a troll climb to its feet. “Ah, hello there.”

No exit—wait, yes, there was an exit. Behind the large beastman. I grit my teeth, waiting for the creature to rise to its feet. At the same time, the wolven patients from above were falling in heaps to the ledge behind me.

I patiently waited for the large one to take a few steps towards me, bloodlust gaining fast traction in its eyes nearly hidden by worn cloth. I waited until it was a few feet away, and then lunged past it, narrowly dodging a swipe of its dagger-claws.

Through the exit, down a ramp. Past the figures rising to their feet, over the bridge. A flock of were-crows squawked in surprise, but I was already ducking into a building. Another large beastman exploded out from behind a weary wooden door, but I rolled between its legs, dashing on.

There was a thunder of racing footsteps on my heels now. Each beast wanted my throat.

I flew down more stairs and around a decaying raised flowerbed. I was at the base of Djura’s tower now, but werebeasts were nearly surrounding me, and I had no clue where to go.

I scouted forward tentatively, yelping in surprise as an ashen creature rose from the flower bed, snarling. Then, another grabbed my ankle, bringing me to a staggering stumble.

I noticed a bridge, kicking away the beast on the ground, twirling around another swipe of claws to rush there. One glance back told me all I needed to know—I had bare moments. Seconds to get out of reach before the entire horde had a hold of me. I assumed they would shred me to pieces before I truly knew what was happening.

 _No._ I couldn’t let it go that way. Eileen was sick, and the girls had no one to protect them. Who would care for them if I didn’t come home safely?

 _You still dream, right?_ Eileen had said. True, when I died, I would awake in the Hunter’s Dream. But whether I would be allowed to return to Yharnam after ignoring the hunt for so long, I was unsure. And that was not a risk I could take.

I darted across the bridge and to the base of Djura’s tower. Beastmen were waiting for me there, swarming the small walkway that lead to—by the old blood, a ladder. A ladder ascended the tower, right on the side. _Damn it all._

I would have to push. Force my way through twenty of them to get to that ladder. _Impossible._

A rioted bellow heaved from my lungs, the snarl on my face undoubtedly matching the beasts’. I plowed forward, knocking beasts and claws and fang alike aside, pushing against the ashy flagstones below my feet with my might.

My shoe slipped on the ash, and I fell.

 _No. No. It can’t be—I was so close. I was nearly there._ Come _on, Harkan. Fight! Fight!_

There were already ten monsters atop me, claws and fangs digging into my thick clothes which only barely protected me.

Against all hope, with my last heave of strength against the crowd, I threw a hand out for the ladder. It must have been within reach, right?

No. My hand whiffed, and I was ready to say goodbye to this world forever. I had given it my all, right?

A glove tightened around my wrist, and the billowing dance of flames hissed in my ears. Suddenly, the beasts were backing away, snarling and growling.

“That was a close one, Hunter,” Djura said, leaning from the ladder to wave away the beasts. “Come! Ascend with me, and we shall have our talk. Thank you for not harming these, my old friends.”

I coughed in surprise, leaping to my feet and grabbing the ladder. “You saved me? It seems I owe you, Sir Powder Keg.”

He grinned, gesturing to the ladder. I caught hold and climbed below him, listening to the disappointed shrieks of the Old Yharnam beasts below.

Finally, Djura helped me to the roof of the tower. I noticed a mounted gatling gun there—what would have happened if I had attacked the beasts below? I didn’t like the idea.

Once I got my breath, he leaned on the gun and gave me a grin. His old powder keg clothes were ghostly gray and white, tattered and covered in dust. His tricorn hunter hat was shredded at the back, looking distinctly haunted. “Nice runnin’, there. ‘bout brought a tear to my eye. Couldn’t just let you die.”

I tipped my hat. “Thank you. I would love to chat, but my dilemma is urgent. The Ashen Blood has reached a friend of mine in the upper city. A blade was poisoned with it. I had heard the church of the Good Chalice was in possession of antidotes. Is it true?”

Djura’s face became alarmed. “By the blood, you’re serious? No time to lose then. Yes, I heard there was a cache of antidotes hidden behind the altar of the church. Has she infected any others?”

I shook my head. “She is quarantined and self-administrating small doses of the old blood. She was infected perhaps seven hours ago.”

He looked out over Old Yharnam. “Good. The infection does not often spread person-to-person, but if her blood mingles with another, then they will become ill as well. I presume you seek the church of the good chalice?”

“I do, if that is where the antidote is, as you say.”

“Good. You will need to take the back route. The church is at the bottom of the hill. Beware the wolves. And our deal is not broken—harm no beast. They were once our brothers, and while they are here in Old Yharnam, they are hurting no one.”

“Very well. I can again make the run—does the fire frighten them?”

“Very much so. Have you a torch?”

I shook my head. He squinted at me, giving me a few looks before shrugging. “You seem like a good egg. I’ll let you take mine. I’ve got plenty.”

He stepped to the ledge, and gave me a brief explanation of my path.

“You’ll need several packets of the antidote, so fill your pockets,” he finished. “Oh and. . . well. There is one creature whose slaughter I will permit.”

My blood chilled. “Such a creature exists?”

He nodded. “it is a behemoth. The size of an elephant. Long has it lied in the church of the good chalice, slowly starving for want of blood. It lies between you and your quarry.”

I bit my lip, considering making a plea for help. But I held it back. Djura had already saved my life once. This was my trip to make.

“Is the route back safe?”

He shook his head. “Likely, you will need to venture into the Unseen Village. A great darkbeast lurks in the graveyard without Old Yharnam’s wall, guarding the ravine and the bridge into Yahar’gul. You might sneak past it, but as it is not in Old Yharnam, its fate is not for me to decide.”

I pulled my notebook from my inner pocket, noting his directions and his brief descriptions of the beasts. “Very well,” I said, closing it and returning it to my pocket. “I thank you for your patience and your help. May the good blood guide your way.”

I swung down onto a different ladder than what I’d ascended. Before I was all the way over the edge, however, Djura cocked his head at me. “One last thing, Hunter. I noticed a glow from within your entry to my burned city. Did you light the Hunter’s lantern within the gate?”

I looked away.

“I did, yes.”

“Then you still dream.”

I pondered my reply for a short moment.

“I believe I still do. But I have not done so in a very long time. And so I would like to avoid it.”

He nodded. “A hunter who does not hunt. Intriguing. Safe journeys, friend. Remember, if you lay a hand on my old friends, then you will become the hunted yourself. Now go. Save your friend.”

…

The beast horde between Djura’s tower and the Church of the Good Chalice was thinner and less aggressive. I crept past them swiftly, following the old Powder Keg’s directions. Around the bend, between the great cathedrals, over the drawbridge—I noted the large doorway that lay off my path, where the Darkbeast lurked. It would be my exit. I hadn’t the time to investigate though.

A massive, overdeveloped werewolf snarled and charged me, but true to Djura’s word, the hunter’s torch kept the beast away until I had squeezed through a crevice between buildings where it would not fit.

And then, I stood atop a hill. In the valley stood the Church of the Good Chalice. Piles of corpses pockmarked the valley, but between them all was a clear path.

_It is a behemoth. The size of an elephant._

I took no comfort in the fact that the elephantine beast in the Church was actually smaller than the Bridge Guardian Cleric Beast I’d slain a week ago with Gascoigne. The difference here was that I, obviously was alone. And Djura’s explanation that this monster was starving was definitely frightening.

_Would I be its next meal?_

Noticing shadows darting about in the bushes near the fringes of the valley, I began a heavy jog. How long had I been going today? Too long. The trip across Yharnam was a long one, and if I made it back to Gascoigne’s in time to deliver the antidote, it would only be within moments of too late.

I hesitated at the threshold of the chapel, peering within. It was eerily large. The looming ceiling was out of sight, lost to the shadows. Eight pillars of stone like ancient trees held it up, growing lichen and casting odd shadows from my torch.

And there, at the back of the chapel, crouched a creature.

It was indeed large. And indeed menacing. Flaps along its head and back shrouded its skeletal body. That it was once human was undeniable—two hind legs and two forelegs were simply mutated human limbs. No tail, no spikes or horns. Just a hellish abundance of skin like fins along its back.

But behind it, I could catch sight of a large crate.

_Antidotes._

I tightened my grip over my torch and my saw cleaver, and I strode into the chapel.

The Blood-Starved Beast shrieked, standing on its hind legs and rending the air like only a starving animal could. I saw its fangs and its claws, like daggers all.

I tossed the torch forward, onto the ground. I would need the Blunderbuss in my left hand, and I doubted the combat abilities of swinging a torch.

And we engaged. It raised a claw and _hurled_ itself at me, giving me nearly no time at all to duck or dodge. Its swift attack knocked my cap right off my head, and something dripped into my hair.

Something hot, and sizzling.

_Oh._

I turned to see the beast nearly forty feet away—its attack had been so swift, it had crossed the room in an instant—whipping its head back at me, the long flaps of skin along its head and spine writhing with moisture. A green-purple moisture.

The stuff on my head was poison. Acid.

_Oh._

I flipped the cleaver open. I wanted this creature as far away from me as possible.

A lolling tongue flicked more moisture into the air as it turned about to face me.

_It may be time. . . for a secret weapon._

I crouched low, watching the beast. It crawled toward me with an eerie bounce of its hips, flicking more and more poison into the air.

_If I get too close, I’ll breathe it in._

This. . . _this_ was a monstrosity.

I pulled a thin, gray-white paper from my pockets. I had precious-little of the stuff, but it was an invaluable hunter’s tool that I kept on hand at all times.

And I waited for the right moment.

Then, just as the beast loomed outside my reach, I rubbed the fire paper onto my blade.

Instantly, the paper caught flames. It coated my blade in a flash as the Blood-Starved Beast shrieked and attacked again.

I was able—barely—to get my cleaver up in time. The Beast crashed head-first into the unserrated side of my cleaver, slashing its face open. Visceral blood and poison sloshed out, but I pressed in, using my flaming cleaver to tear as much flesh from its body as possible.

Something _crashed_ into my side—the beast’s claw. I was thrown across the chapel in a somersault, and I slammed into one of the pillars.

Years of hunting experience kept my cleaver in my hand, but I had to hold it carefully to avoid burning myself. And those same years of experience got me on my feet bare moments before the Blood-Starved Beast followed up its attack with a tackle. It smashed into the pillar, and I had an instant to inspect my new wound.

A dizzying amount of blood drenched my side.

I lifted my shirt quickly, glancing in.

_Oh no._

It was big. Too big. Insides were threatening to become outside.

In a moment of wrath— _I will not die here—_ I heaved my own flaming cleaver, and pressed it to my side.

Stinging, withering, excruciating pain brought an unholy scream out of me, but I held the burning metal to my skin until I couldn’t bear it anymore. It was only maybe three seconds, but it was enough to nearly make me lose consciousness.

I pulled the blade away, my mind alight with a thousand tortured cries.

And then I ducked. Instinctively.

A mighty claw swept above me, right where my head would have been. Survival instinct alone kept my head on my shoulders at all. I turned and chased the beast as its brutally swift attack kept it barreling ten meters more.

By the time it was turning about to face me again, my flaming cleaver undercutted its hind leg, cleaving deep into the meat of its thigh. It shrieked, dancing away and threatening to take my weapon from me, but I held strong. I held strong.

_I will not die here._

_I will protect Gascoigne’s girls. This is my responsibility._

Another swipe, another dodge. The Blood-Starved Beast was growing impatient. It rose to its hind legs, shaking its body and showering me in more poison—I was literally dripping with the stuff. If I didn’t slay it immediately, Eileen’s illness would be a distant memory: _I_ needed the antidote.

Then, the creature rampaged. Without strategy or procedure, it stampeded me with both arms flailing. Claws swept through the air like swords, poison fell like rain.

And I, Harkan, Hunter of Beasts, drove forward to meet it.

I ducked. I parried. And then I struck.

My cleaver buried itself in the monster’s chest, and as it screeched for its life, I pushed harder. I drove the flames into its body with only wrath pumping through my veins.

And then, it was over.

The mighty beast slumped, and I shrugged it off as hot pain surged from my stomach. From my head. From my arms and legs, weary and injured.

_If that crate does not have antidotes, then we are all doomed. Me, Eileen, Madeleine, Elizavet. For the love of all that is great and good, let there be antidotes in that crate._

I swept up my discarded torch and stumbled to the back of the church, shaking the fire from my saw cleaver. The crate spilled open, dumping pouches of dark brown pellets onto the ground.

“Oh, praise be,” I muttered, sweeping up a pouch, tearing it open, and tossing the pills into my mouth. I didn’t have time for them to dissolve naturally—Instead, I chewed the bitter medicine and choked it down. I dug my waterskin from my pockets, squeezing the sweet drink into my mouth to wash it all down.

I slumped against an altar, sighing in pain. I lifted my shirt, looking at my gut.

The cauterized skin was a mangled, twisted, burning mess. But the brutal injury was closed. I had probably cauterized it wrong—I’d only heard of the practice from Alfredius, my old surgeon friend who’d died in the Old Yharnam fire. I doubted I’d ever try it again, and I wasn’t even sure that I was safe from the injury already. All I knew was that it was burned and sensitive, and that the wound was closed.

I swallowed hard, forcing more medicine into me, as I investigated the reddening, inflating skin. The sign of the illness was undoubtedly the same as Eileen’s injury. It was swelling quickly, bringing a bright redness to my skin like a bad sunburn.

And then, gradually it stopped.

And it reversed.

 _Whoa._ The antidote worked that quickly? I wanted to doubt it, but I could _feel_ the bitter stuff seeping into my system, drawing the poison out.

I rested there for as long as I dared before finally rising back to my feet. I carefully withdrew some Old Blood from an inner pocket, injecting it into my skin.

 _That’s twice in two days. I don’t like it. The difference between poison and prescription is the size of the dose._ It took a long time for Old Blood to wash out of the system. A few days. I already had two doses in me—not nearly enough to give me symptoms of the plague of beasts, but enough to make me wary of any future doses.

Finally, after pocketing as much of the medicine as I could carry, I made my way out of the Church of the Good Chalice.


	6. It's bitter

Heeding Djura’s warning about the Darkbeast, I found the graveyard beside the ravine. To get there, I had climbed a wall and dropped quietly into the bushes on the edge of the graveyard. 

Eyes narrowed, body complaining from my fight with the Blood-Starved Beast, I made a long, sweeping inspection of the graveyard. I didn’t see a darkbeast anywhere, but I didn’t doubt Djura’s words. He had told me the truth so far, and he’d even lent me a torch. 

The torch was extinguished and stowed at my side, and my cleaver was at home in my hand. My blunderbuss was home in the other. My side reminded me of its injury in searing flashes with every heartbeat. I wasn’t sure if I would encounter the darkbeast, but I absolutely could not risk fighting it. It would slay me in an instant--I was too injured, too weak. 

The graveyard beside the ravine was not very populated with graves, but there were plenty of bushes and even a single tree swaying in the breeze. A mound of dirt with what looked like grass covering it made a bump in the landscape, but the scenery did not seem to be hiding any insidious beasts. 

I carefully made my way out of the bushes, the bulges of medicine in my pockets a comforting weight. My coat was soaked in blood, both of the church beast and of myself. The moon above illuminated my path across the graveyard. 

All at once, I realized something was wrong. I glanced back just in time to watch the mound of dirt rise up on four legs. The strands that I had assumed were grass were actually long strands of hair, held aloft by electrostatic. 

“Oh my god,” I wheezed, turning about and breaking into a sprint as a shriek like death came from the awakened darkbeast. “Oh my god.” 

I was over the bridge in seconds as the darkbeast trampled the graveyard in pursuit. I could hear gravestones shattering, and then i felt the bridge beneath me strain and groan under the darkbeast’s weight. 

Some old stairs lead from the bridge and into the basement of an unfamiliar building. The entryway was thin, and I hoped that the darkbeast would give up rather than try to cram itself through. I ducked within and rushed across the room, glancing back hopefully. 

My hopes, and the wall, shattered as the darkbeast plunged after me. Its skeletal hands cracked against the stone floor of the basement, which I was realizing was actually an old prison. The cells were occupied by corpses of slain villagers, and glowing yellow eyes leered at me from the darkness. 

I had no time to ponder on it. Drums thundered in my head as I decided to take my chances with the glowing eyes rather than the rampaging darkbeast, which was gaining footing in the basement. Soon, it would be inside and close enough to grab me. 

The darkness parted somewhat as I charged into it, towards those glowing orbs, which revealed themselves to be belonging to an old crone, hunched forward and draped in tattered gray rags. I kicked her aside and surged past her, towards the stairs--

Something cold and soft grabbed my face from behind, yanking me off my feet and onto my back. The crone had retaliate, and now she held an awl to my throat, drool dripped from her toothy maw. 

And then a massive, skeletal hand grabbed her, lifting her up and crushing her in one swift movement. Her blood and organs spurted out of a dozen rips in her skin, but I didn’t stay behind to watch. As the darkbeast was focused on the crone, I was getting to my feet and dashing up the stairs. 

Heart thudding, side screaming, I rounded a corner and dashed up more stairs through an archway into a large, high-ceilinged room like a chapel. Within were two hulking men in hoods who turned to look at me, but I wasn’t stopping. I dashed past them, giving them a wide berth, and only glancing back as the darkbeast exploded through the floor and into the chapel. 

By the time I was around a few corners and catching my breath in a quiet alley, the sounds of the darkbeast were distant and quiet. I muttered a few curses to myself before taking to a jog and navigating my way out of the Unseen Village. 

…

A full 12 hours had passed in yharnam by the time I was again knocking on the door to the late Father Gascoigne’s home. I feared that the trek through the sprawling city paired with a dozen tenuous encounters with beasts and man and monster took more time than I had. 

“Who’s there?” came Madeleine’s nervous voice. 

“It’s me,” I said, “Harkan. I’m back. I have the antidote.” 

The door flew open, and Madeleine’s worried eyes filled with something I hadn’t seen in them as she’d ever before looked at me. It was relief. 

“Eileen’s been quiet for a while now,” she said as I shouldered through the door and helped her barricade it again. 

“Has she eaten?” I asked, finishing with the barricade and making my way through the house. 

“I don’t know,” she replied, following along behind. “I didn’t dare open the door.” 

“Where’s Elizavet?” I asked. 

“I put her down for a nap,” she said as we came to a halt outside the door. I pulled my scarf up past my face, tightened my gloves, and put my hand on the door. 

“Wait here,” I said, and she nodded. 

I entered Eileen’s quarantined room, quickly closing the door behind me. I didn’t know enough about the Ashen Bloodto take risks like letting the girls in to see Eileen. Djura mentioned that it was a disease of the blood, and was only transmitted by the blood, but I wasn’t going to take any risks. 

Eileen lay on the bed. He chest heaved, and she was buried beneath as many blankets as she’d been able to find. Her face was exposed, but her skin was sickly and pale and shining with sweat. The pitchers of water that I’d left with her were empty. There was a scattering of syringes around the room, too many to count. Dried blood caking their empty interiors. 

“Eileen,” I said, withdrawing some packets of antidote. I tore three open and poured the capsules into my hand. “I’m here. Open your mouth.” 

“Harkan,” she whispered, her eyes squeezed shut. “It hurts. I need more blood. It hurts. Help me.” 

I inspected the tough brown antidote capsules in my hand, glancing at her weak jaw. They would be too tough for her to chew in this weak state. Without hesitation, I tossed six into my mouth, chewing them and breaking them down as far as I felt was safe before spitting it back into my glove. With my other hand, i gently tugged her mouth open and slipped the mass in. 

“It’s bitter,” I said, “But swallow. It’s almost over.” 

She squirmed, her face contorting a little, but she swallowed. I carried the pitchers to the door and asked Madeleine to refill them before returning to Eileen’s side. After a brief hesitation, i pulled back her blankets. 

She was naked, and her skin was red and puffy from her knees to her shoulders. She shivered, and her arms raised weakly to grasp at the blankets. “Harkan,” she whispered, “I’m dying. I’m dying. Help me.” 

I returned the blankets. I chewed three more capsules and administered them, and then Madeleine had returned with the water. 

“Is she going to be okay?” she asked, and I noticed she had pulled her own gown up over her mouth and nose. I decided to let her stay. 

What could I tell her? Eileen’s condition was critical. “My child, I am not sure. I am not familiar with this disease. I do not know the recovery speed. I do not know how effective the antidote is--” I had an inkling because of my scrape with the Beast of the Church of the Good Chalice, but I had no way of knowing whether my poisoning was the same as Eileen’s. The antidote had worked immediately on me. Would it take as quickly for Eileen? Or was I too late? 

My side hissed, and I stood with a wince. “I’m afraid all we can do is wait. Have you eaten?” 

Madeleine shook her head, so I gestured out the door. We locked Eileen’s door and made our way to the kitchen, and I began work on another stew. Madeleine took a seat at the bench at the table behind me, and we were quiet for a long while. I stoked the fire beneath the stove, boiled water, chopped vegetables, peeled potatoes, and added a bit of cream in silence. The Gascoignes had a small garden on the roof wherewith the kitchen was stocked, and Father Gascoigne had stockpiled on meat preserves, which made this particular meal the staple of their home.

“I was worried,” Madeleine said quietly, startling me. 

“She may yet not recover,” I cautioned, “I am  _ still  _ worrying.” 

“No,” Madeleine said, “I mean. . . I was worried you wouldn’t come back.” 

I looked through the steam and into the stew, my heart humming comfortably. Had it not been just yesterday when she told me she hated me? 

_ I nearly did not come back,  _ I almost said, but I ground that idea to dust with my heel. Instead I turned and gave her a weak smile. “I told you. I will protect you. I will give it my all.” 

I finished the stew and retrieved two bowls from the cupboards, spoons from the drawers. 

Madeleine looked down at the bowl as I placed it before her. I sat across the table and spooned some into my mouth--I hadn’t eaten since Eileen’s oatmeal nearly 16 hours ago, and I was starving. 

“You remembered,” she said. 

“What’s that?” I asked, spooning more into my mouth. 

“That. . . I don’t like carrots,” she said. 

“My brain is not so old as to forget something you told me just yesterday,” I said. “Test me in a few weeks, and we’ll see what I remember.” 

She sipped quietly, and I fought my eyes to stay open. 

“When did you sleep last?” I asked. I wanted to rest, but Eileen’s recovery stood the best chance if someone could remain awake and nearby her. 

“I woke up a few hours ago,” she said. 

“Very well,” I said, relaxing and standing up. I shucked my coat and hung it over my arm. “I am. . . quite tired. I’ll retire for a few hours. Wake me if Eileen’s condition changes.” 

“Harkan,” she said, her eyes widening. She was staring at my side. The clothes were torn and bloodied, and the cauterized injury was visible beneath. “Did that happen today?” 

“Ah,” I said, regretting that she’d seen it. But I’d decided to be honest with her--like Eileen had said, she was tough. She had a good head on her shoulders. “Aye, that was today. There was a large creature guarding the antidote stockpile in Old Yharnam. It connected a strong blow, and my first aid options were quite limited.” 

“Did you. . . did you  _ burn your skin closed?”  _

I lifted the shirt to give her a better look. “I learned the technique from an old friend. He was a surgeon, and he taught me that in emergencies, it’s possible to heat the skin and seal wounds, but it’s quite dangerous. If the wound is too wide, then it will not work. Also, I didn’t have much time to attend to it, so I’ll be cleaning it before I rest.” 

“Do you want help?” she asked. 

I removed the pot from the stove, leaving it on the stone counter. That was all the energy I had for now. 

“If you wish to help,” I decided, “I will need another pitcher of water and a rag, and any alcohol you have on hand. And a few bags of tea leaves.” 

She nodded, and I began my trek up the stairs. Now that I had ministered to Eileen, my exhaustion was catching up to me. My body cried for rest, my muscles groaning and my back complaining. 

“Thank you, child,” I said, sitting upon my bed. I leaned my saw cleaver against the wall and hung my coat in the wardrobe. Madeleine had followed me with a pitcher and a candle. 

“Do you want me to make the tea?” she asked. 

I smiled. “I will not be drinking it. There is an eastern country that apparently uses tea leaves for burns, and it has worked well enough for me. Could you remove them from the packets and put them on that tray there?” 

She did as requested as I tugged my shirt over my head. I poured water onto a rag and wiped up the sweat on my chest and stomach, hissing as i touched the burn wound. The skin was tight and warped and bright red. The place where I’d been cut was especially tender, and a blood blister was forming where the cauterization had been too thin. 

It was an ugly, twisted wound. The longer I inspected it, the more I didn’t want Madeleine to have to see it. But she didn’t seem fazed as she brought me the tea leaves. I wrapped these in bandage and dipped them in the water before placing them directly against the burn, which stung and hissed in protest. But I wrapped the moist bandage around myself and tied it off snug to keep the leaves in place. Finally, I carefully scooted back into bed, taking a swig of the whiskey Madeleine had brought before pouring a little onto the bandage above the burn. 

“Will you be okay?” she asked. 

“I’ve had worse,” I sighed, a little put-out by the truth of it. “Tomorrow will be ghastly. But I’ll survive.” 

“You. . . you promise?” she asked. 

I gave her a smile and lay back against my sheets. “I promise, Madeleine.” 

**Author's Note:**

> watch for updates, they might come


End file.
